


Kiss Off

by orphan_account



Category: Video Blogging RPF, sleepycabin, sleepycast
Genre: A LOT of Angst, AU, Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Angst, Breaking Up & Making Up, M/M, Minor Violence, Misunderstandings, Repressed Memories, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:49:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25233427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: You can all just kiss of into the air. Behind my back I can see them stare.They'll hurt me bad but I won't mind. They'll hurt me bad, they do it all the time!
Relationships: Mick Lauer/William Stamper
Comments: 3
Kudos: 4





	Kiss Off

**Author's Note:**

> Based off the song Kiss Off by Violent Femmes. I fucking love that song. Listen to it.

There's nothing quite like a good breath of debris, dust, and cigarette smoke to start off your morning. It had become a regular for Stamper.

Every morning, wake up with horrible back pain, recover from the panic of a nightmare, struggle to find a reason to get up from a sorry excuse of a bed, go out and get a good look at earth's leftovers, then light a cigarette on the rooftop and pretend that everything was okay.

The routine was the twisted type of ordinary that Stamper had grown used to. He had become familiar to that hollow feeling in his chest and the lethargic state his body had claimed. Every night was plagued by horrible reminders of the world he was trapped in. His lungs were starting to feel the effects his terrible habits had on them. Every inch of his body had scabs, bruises, and bandages. He hadn't showered in weeks, wearing the same hoodie and ripped up jeans he watched the world end in.

This was the definition of hell.

He wouldn't have minded all of this either... but only if he only had one thing. Just one little something that could've made this all that much more tolerable.

A friend...

Something he couldn't manage to keep...

He didn't know if it was his fault. He didn't fully understand how this happened either. But he knew one thing, and that was that he was alone.

Horribly and miserably alone.

He always had trust issues. Since forever, he had some little devil on his shoulder, whispering to him that the others hated him and conspired against him. Every time a kid pushed him over, stole his stuff, or called him a name, that voice got worse.

It was only a tiny voice that told him how useless he was, but Stamper somehow allowed it to be so much bigger than it actually was.

This was probably how he developed his apathetic view on life. His carefree attitude of live like there's no tomorrow and fuck everyone else. If he really didn't matter, then he was free of responsibility. His decisions didn't matter, because no one cared about him, and that made him free. He used this to his advantage.

He made a lot of mistakes throughout his life. He made a lot of shitty decisions that, in hindsight, weren't the smartest. He excused it all though, because as long as he wasn't hurting anyone else... it didn't matter.

He lived almost his entire life like that, with this careless view. That's how he learned to cope with the voices. Well, that and drug and alcohol abuse...

But that all that was challenged when he met a certain man only a few years ago.

That bald-headed, salt and pepper bearded, talented as hell, and fucking optimistic piece of shit. The man he worked beside and the man he couldn't get out of his head.

Stamper never believed in love. He believed in tolerating someone for more than a week. He thought that love was some dumb prank the brain liked to play. But that all changed when he met... Mick.

Suddenly, when he met Mick, that voice in his head dissipated, and Mick's speech was the only one he heard. Swiftly his apathetic thoughts melted away into infatuation over someone he barely really knew at the time. It was stupid of him, but he felt like there was someone else in the world for him.

Over time he learned that he trusted Mick. Unlike his other friends, there was someone that he felt wanted by. Suddenly his actions had weight to them, because when he hurt himself, he realized that he was also hurting Mick.

That original voice would sneak up and hit him with a few paranoid thoughts. It would remind him that people he thought he trusted could turn on him in a second—any of them!

Except for Mick.

That man was a godsend. Even though the voice hissed in his ear to never trust Mick, Stamper didn't listen. Mick became everything to him, and he was pretty sure Mick felt the same way. The clues added up.

Maybe it was how Mick went out of his way to help Stamper when he got way too drunk and would get him everything he needed. Perhaps it was the fact that Mick was always available and ready to come over at the dead of night to comfort Stamper when he was at his worst. Maybe it was his encouraging words, his gentle gaze, his wondrous touch.

Or perhaps it was the fact that one lonely night in the office, when no one was around except for Stamper's good ol' friend alcoholism, of course. When he and Mick were on that couch. That gentle kiss... their lips cradling one another... and their bodies never letting go.

Not a single negative thought was in Stamper's head. No trace of anything wrong in life. Only complete and unadulterated bliss.

Oh god... he was doing it again.

Stamper bit his already bruised knuckles, the bandages leaving the unpleasant taste of old blood and dirt in his mouth. His eyes darted around the dilapidated landscape.

He couldn't do this... not again.

His vision became obscured by pooling tears, and his breath hitched. A hiccup escaped him and caused his lungs to trap smoke in them, sending him into a coughing fit.

He couldn't allow that piece of shit to consume him again, to crawl into his thoughts. He thought he had eliminated him from his conscience such a long time ago. Why was it that every morning, when Stamper felt his worse, his mind had to pull that man out of the trash and shove it in his face?

As he bit harder on his knuckles, he felt his hand scream for him to stop. He felt a single warm tear trace his cheek and get lost in his mess of facial hair. Soon the fingers on his opposite hand felt a sharp sting, and he cursed to himself as he flinched and shook his hand.

He saw his cigarette butt fall to the floor and roll off the roof ledge he sat upon. The rusted gutter that hung off the edge caught the cigarette, and Stamper realized how short it had gotten. The damned thing must've burned him.

He shook his head, releasing his jaw's grip on his poor knuckles, and remained stationary. His head dropped, and he began to contemplate.

He forced himself to remember why he hated Mick now. Why he needed to forget about him. Why he needed to stick to his gut and listen to that voice again.

Mick betrayed him.

It was like the voice had warned Stamper so many times, telling him that anyone and everyone can and will turn their backs on him. He can't trust anyone but himself. Stamper was a fool, though, and he didn't listen.

That night, only a mere week before this armageddon began, Stamper visited the office to pick up a few things he had left behind. It was late as hell, and he was pretty tired, although a quick pickup never hurt anyone. But what he witnessed in that office fucking murdered him.

Stamper was so carefree, dancing and singing to himself as he put his keys in the door, and was surprised to find it already unlocked. He furrowed his brows as he pushed it open with ease, seeing that not a light was on in the office, and there was no sound.

Someone from the office must've just forgotten to lock it. What a dumb ass. It was probably Stamper himself actually, since he was the last one to leave that night.

He shrugged his shoulders and scolded himself for leaving the door unlocked before entering the building. But as he came in, he heard a slight creaking and a gasp, which made him freeze in his tracks. He craned his neck to look around the room, trying to locate where the noise had come from.

"Hello?" He asked, his voice echoing off the walls.

Silence.

Silence.

BANG!

Stamper jumped out of his skin as he reentered the real world. His shoe's grip on the roof slipped out from under him, and he nearly flew right off the edge. But unlike his cigarette butt, he wouldn't be caught by the gutter. He caught himself quickly enough, a few shingles falling off the roof, and he searched for the abrupt sound that so violently pulled him from his memories.

He promptly caught sight of a group of people howling and shooting guns off into the air. About three of them, all in ripped up clothing and bandages, just like Stamper. Each of them shouting at one another to hurry up and saying something along the lines of "He's getting away!".

Stamper resettled himself on his perch and rolled his eyes. They were idiots. There were tons of gangs out there that would hear them and kill them. Stamper learned pretty quickly that he had to be quiet, or else he'd wind up dead. Unlike him, other people had friends out here.

As he got ready to pull another cigarette out of his back pocket, he noticed a fourth person scurrying ahead of the other three. He staggered as he tried to run, and his head darted back to check his distance between himself and the others. He was a lone wolf, running from a pack of vicious mutts. Poor guy just ended up in the wrong territory.

Stamper watched this other man, with a beanie fastened over his head and dark clothing covering his body, as he ran for his life. Stamper almost felt bad for him for a moment. He _almost_ did.

Stamper had been in this man's situation a few too many times this week. He had empathy for the guy. But that voice rang in his head, reminding him that if given a chance, that man could just spin around and shoot Stamper just as quickly as the others would shoot him.

Yet as he continued to watch, placing the unlit cigarette in his mouth, he found he couldn't look away. Something about this guy was just so... hopeless. It made Stamper feel something that he couldn't quite explain. It was more than just simple pity. It perplexed him, and he grew curious about this new complicated feeling in his chest.

The man soon turned a corner and was out of sight, the three brutes continued to pursue him.

"Fuck it," Stamper shrugged. It wasn't like he had anything important to do.

He tucked the cigarette back into his pocket and crawled on the unstable surface he had spent the morning on. As he followed the newcomers, his mind receded back into his previous thoughts, resuming the recounting of his memories.

More creaking sounded, as Stamper took slow crawling steps through the office. He recognized that sound from anywhere, though, quickly identifying it as the shitty recording couch he had spent so many hours on. The same one he and Mick shared their first kiss upon. The thought of it made his chest all fluttery and made him feel all sorts of cheesy bullshit.

He wasn't overly careful with his steps, not really making an effort to sneak on whoever was inside. His hands were stuffed into his jacket pockets as he investigated the area. Soon he found the door that led to the room where many memories had been planted and grown, and he pushed it open without hesitation. It was awfully thoughtless of him, and he almost didn't notice the door was already partially cracked.

When he stepped into the room, expecting one of his drunken friends to be sprawled out on top of the couch, he was met with a very different sight. There was not just one person on that couch...

"Mick!?" Stamper made himself known, and Mick jumped as he turned his head to the new voice. A woman sat opposite of him on the couch, her own eyes wide and shocked. Her tits were barely covered by her folded arms. Stamper never thought he'd be so upset by seeing a naked woman.

Mick tried to explain himself. The woman was quick to leave, and Stamper could barely think over the barrage of excuses being thrown at him. Through it all though... he could only hear that damned voice...

 _"I told you so! I told you so!"_ it taunted, and Stamper growled. He spun around and shoved on Mick's chest as hard as he could, sending him back onto the couch. Stamper remembers the last thing he said before he stormed out with his middle fingers in the air.

"You could've just told me I wasn't enough for you! This is a horrible way of telling me,"

"Damn it, Stamper, won't you listen to me for just one-"

"Kiss off, sweetheart! I'm over it!"

Then with one last door slam, that was the last he had spoken to Mick. He had seen him around the office plenty, sure, but each gaze from him was hate-filled, and each greeting was followed with a swift goodbye.

He knew by the look in Mick's eyes that he wanted to say something more. He could tell that there was something else brewing up in his head, probably another excuse. Stamper didn't want to hear it, though.

He should've stuck to his gut. He shouldn't have let himself become so vulnerable. And Stamper decided from that moment on he wasn't going to rely on anyone else. He didn't need a partner in life, he didn't need Mick.

That was until that day. That moment when-

Shaking. Trembling. Crumbling. Decay.

The earth never quite remembered how to sit still since she had her tantrum a while back. Now she would shiver ever so often, sending around little earthquakes and causing more damage than the original quake that sent humanity spiraling.

Now, oh so conveniently, while Stamper was running along unstable rooftops, mother nature decided to shake things up a bit. The shingles rattled, and Stamper nearly lost his footing, but he had become pretty good at this roof running stuff. He only silently prayed that this was a quick tremor, and the building wouldn't fall out from under him.

He heard a rise from the three men chasing down their prey, a sort of immature oo that a child would give when a kid got in trouble at school. Stamper giggled to himself, amused by the childishness, and proceeded to follow them.

The ground once again settled and allowed a second of peace. Stamper was much more careful with placing his feet now and peeked over the edge of the platform he stood on. Now he was on top of a stable and flat building instead of a slanted roof. He tried to find the faces of the four mystery men below him.

An alleyway. The assailants had that other man cornered. He was probably a lost cause now, not that Stamper was planning to do much for him anyway. But as he nearly turned away to return to his space of isolation. He heard the man speak.

"Wait, please! I-I can't die yet. Take whatever you want, but I can't die-"

That voice... fuck...

Stamper remembered that day when the sun fell, and the earth cracked in half. The dreaded end of the world that humanity had been so paranoid of for so many years. A day that many books and brilliant minds predicted and warned people of.

It would've made no difference to Stamper, because he had Mick. But that day, when the world fell out, the last leg he was standing on followed.

The office was falling. Everyone was rushing in every direction. The only things that could be heard was metal crunching, brick and mortar crumbling, and so many familiar voices screaming.

It was slightly overwhelming to Stamper. He was just taking a nap on the couch when it happened. There was no warning, and he was jerked from quite the appealing dream, thrown head first into a nightmare.

He didn't know how to react at first, dazed and confused, but he swiftly realized that something was horribly wrong.

And what was the first thing his brain jumped up and said to do?

Look for Mick. Make sure he's safe.

He never moved so quickly before. Leaping from the sofa and sprinting through the hallways. His voice, still dry from just waking up, called for someone else, anyone else to help him.

Soon his ears caught hold of a new sound through all the chaos and refused to let go of it. It dragged Stamper like a dog on a leash in its direction.

"Stamper!" Mick called. "Stamper!"

"Mick! I'm here!" Stamper shouted, trying to get the older man's attention.

He continued to run, feeling his bones being shaken by the rumbling of the ground. He caught himself on the walls and took a few more turns before he finally made it into the office's main room.

He froze in place, his heart beating on his rib cage like it was trying to rip his chest in half, similar to what the earth was already doing to itself.

On the opposite side of the room, leaned up against the wall with a wound on his forehead, was Mick. He struggled to catch his breath, and his eyes blew up when he caught sight of Stamper. The corners of his lips turned up into a smile, the only source of light in this grim situation.

Stamper felt like the wind took his feet and carried him towards him. His arms outstretched, grasping as if when he locked himself around Mick, nothing could go wrong.

Why was he doing this? Why did he suddenly find he would rather die next to Mick then by himself? Just a few hours ago he was telling himself he'd never let Mick touch him again and now here he was begging for physical contact. God, he could never make up his mind, could he?

Mick opened his own arms as well, presenting his chest and inviting Stamper to join him. But something far greater than the two of them had a different plan for them.

Suddenly the concrete floor cracked underneath Stamper's feet, and he fell through the new opening. His fingers barely caught the edge of the collapsing cement, and he was left dangling off the ledge. He dared to take a peek at what was waiting at the bottom for him. He was petrified by the sight of sharp pipes and an endless abyss. He couldn't stop a scream from escaping him, and he looked back up, trying to heave himself up from the ledge.

He noticed Mick from the corner of his eye and looked up, a bit more desperately then he would've liked, at him. He expected Mick to heroically come over and grab hold of his damsel in distress, if that's what you wanted to call Stamper in that moment. He wanted Mick to hold him, tell him it'd be okay, and then the two would run out together.

Stamper's expectations were not met, though.

Instead, Mick took a step back. His arms reunited with the wall behind him, and he only watched Stamper, emotions brewing into strange shapes in his gaze. Stamper really wanted to know what they all meant.

"Mick! Please!" Stamper called, able to take one of his hands and reach for Mick. He felt grit dig into his palms and fly into his eyes. Maybe he could use that as an excuse for how watery his eyes were getting.

But Mick didn't even take one step forwards. Instead, he only looked up to his left, and Stamper followed his sight to see what the hell else he was looking at.

A doorway...

Surely not...

"Mick! No!" Stamper cried, and Mick only gave him a second passing glance before looking back at the doorway.

"If you run out on me, you son of a bitch!" Stamper didn't know what to think. Surely he wasn't thinking what Stamper was thinking. Surely he wouldn't.

Then it happened. The building was ripped apart more, and a fluorescent light from the ceiling fell. Sparks flew, and the glass shattered, causing both men to wince.

Stamper's grip became a lame excuse of one. He shouted as he could only hold on with one hand, the other dangling pathetically beside him.

He got one last good look at Mick from over the ledge. The last image of him was branded into Stamper's mind and will forever be stuck there. Replaying in his head like a broken tape.

Mick ran out the doorway. That fucker ran. He sprinted out the door, and even though Stamper hadn't fallen from that ledge yet, his heart already plummeted to the center of the earth and was being boiled alive.

He felt heartbroken. What the fuck was the point now? Why was he cramping his hand, why was he holding on for dear life? All of it just ran out that door. He'd never see it again... it was pointless.

Until now, while he was standing on this roof and staring down at the begging man. It was so strange to see him like this, usually he was so confident and strong. Now he was disintegrating just like everything else in this damned city.

"We don't want anything! What would we do with it?" One of the three attackers responded to Mick's offer with a scoff. "Your brains on the dirt is far more satisfying,"

The voice was deep and menacing. A gloved hand reached around, and the handle of a gun could be seen sticking out of his pant waist.

Stamper felt a rise in his chest, an urge to do something before it was too late.

He reached around to his own pant waist.

Damn it.

He left his gun back at his little camp. What else could he do? He wasn't ready to see Mick die, no matter how much he'd pray every night for that man to be dead. He realized at that moment that he didn't entirely mean it.

Soon his eyes noticed a broken wall behind him, and along with it were pieces of bricks. Most of them were only halves, and the rest were crumbs, but it was enough.

His hand wrapped firmly around one of the pieces, and he turned back around. Without a second thought, he propelled the brick into the air, and with a sickening crack, it made contact with the stranger's skull. The man collapsed significantly quicker then Stamper imagined he would and met the floor with a thud. There he remained motionless.

The other two spun their heads around, turning their heads like owls, and noticed Stamper on the roof. He could feel Mick's eyes on him, as well. He always could. Before they were like a pleasant beam of sun, bathing him with warmth, but now they just left his skin sunburned.

There was the pop of a gun going off as one of them shot at Stamper. Then, as if that bullet had reawakened hell, the earth began to shudder once more. It was probably only because of that quake that the bullet missed Stamper, since he heard it whiz straight past his ear.

This tremor was unexpected and far more aggressive than any previous ones. Even with Stamper standing on a flat surface, he felt the land move under him, and the roof he stood on was about to cave in. In a moment of panic, he jumped off the side of the one-story building, and the ground was quick to reacquaint itself with him. He took note of obnoxiously loud crashing and plumes of dust flying up as he jumped, safe to say he made the right decision since the building had in fact collapsed.

When he met the asphalt road, he found that he was rolling on it involuntarily. As the ground quaked, it was splitting yet again, and it pushed up the alleyway to make it into uneven terrain.

He tried to push himself off the ground, and as he did, he looked up to see one of the antagonists in a choke hold from none other than Mick Lauer himself. It was strange seeing him being slightly selfless for once in a blue moon.

There was a lot of venom in Stamper's heart that he was ready to release, but he held it back. If he and Mick lived, then he had a lot to say to him.

Mick threw the man he had in hold onto the ground, and the second guy ran up to him, ramming into his side. Mick fell back pretty quickly, and the land became more hostile with it's shaking. The incline becoming significantly steeper.

Stamper launched himself at the foe and latched himself onto the mans back. Stamper found himself bringing the guy to the ground, and the man wriggled on top of him, trying to get out of the death grip that Stamper had on him. Stamper remained persistent with his grip, though, and he saw that right next to him was the brick he had previously thrown.

It was barely in arm's reach, and he stretched his arm out, desperately trying to reach the makeshift weapon.

Then that voice chimed in. It had to tangle itself up in this fucking mess. Had to stack itself on top of the earthquake and the yelling and everything. It was reminding Stamper, it was telling him that Mick had hurt him and would do it again. It said to him that he should just get up and run. Get as far away from here as possible. Don't give Mick a second chance.

"Shut up!" Stamper shouted. His hand caught hold of the brick, and he swung it around.

At that same moment, he felt something cold get pushed against his temple and the cocking of a gun.

BAM!

A gunshot.

Was he dead?

But why was the ground still shaking like hell? Why could he still hear and feel? Wasn't there supposed to be pain? Where's that bright heavenly light everyone always hyped up? With a bullet through your head, you would smell just a little bit of blood, right? Oh wait, he did smell blood. Was that his?

"Stamper, you can get up now," Mick panted. The earth became still once more, and Stamper soon realized that the body on top of him was no longer struggling.

He looked to see a gun directly in his face with a limp hand hovering over the trigger. Red dripped from the man's forehead, and Stamper was quick to shove him off of him. He brushed himself off as he slowly stood and looked over to see Mick with a pistol in hand and a dead man behind him.

Then came the eye contact. His gaze with those abstract shapes, once again leaving Stamper curious. The two of them locking in a mental battle, and Stamper wasn't sure which of them was winning. Oh, whatever, everyone was a loser in his book.

"Stamper. Thank god you're still alive, I-" Mick was the first to speak, his voice drenched in relief. It was cut short though when Stamper pushed up he sleeve, and his bandaged fist met Mick's bruised face. Mick cursed as he took a step back, slightly stunned and holding his nose.

"That's one, for leaving me behind!" Stamper barked.

"I-I know, I deserve that. I-" Mick tried to speak again, pulling his hand away from his face, and a small bit of red peeked out from his nostril. His sentence was cut short by another fist to the front.

"That's two because I miss being with people,"

"Stamp-" He couldn't even get the name out fully before one more hit to the face sent him onto the slanted asphalt.

"That's three for my motherfucking heartache, and you know what? Here's four for my headaches too," Stamper gave a firm kick to Mick's side. Mick curled up into a ball as with each reason, Stamper let out his venom and kicked the same place repeatedly.

"This is five for my lonely, and here's six cause I'm a sad motherfucker. I'll throw on a seven in the hopes for no tomorrow. And an eight for... for-uh. Fuck it, I don't need an eight. And here's a nine for whatever let this happen to humanity. And here's a final ten for _everything_!" The final word that left his mouth was a sword compared to the daggers he had previously thrown. The last kick was the hardest, and Mick didn't move. He didn't speak.

He stared ahead of him, his eyes brimming with liquid regret. He cradled himself in his arms, and Stamper kept his cold and vengeful expression. In reality, he was just as heartbroken on the inside as he was before. Kicking and punching Mick didn't help nothing. Now he just felt more depressed than ever, which only caused him to get even more upset.

What was he upset with exactly? Hell if he knew. He felt like a hormonal teenager again. Was it himself he was angry at? Was it Mick? The world, maybe? Or perhaps that annoying voice? Stamper didn't know, but he didn't care enough either. His head was killing him, he didn't need to stress it out any more then he already had.

Without another word, he turned and walked away, ready to go back to his temporary hideout. He wanted to go back to the rooftop, he wanted to ponder, and he really needed a smoke.

"Stamper," Mick said through gritted teeth as he tried to sit up. He was on his hands and knees, one arm holding his side, which probably had a few developing bruises. His nose leaking a significantly larger amount of blood.

"What?" Stamper spun around and made sure to give the most poisonous glare he could muster. But being met with the sight before him, of a man he still couldn't help but feel something special for in such a beaten-down condition, his gaze melted into anguish.

"I have been looking for you for weeks. I don't care if you keep beating me, spitting on me, you can murder me for all I care! I just didn't want you to leave without me telling you that.... that I still love you," Mick was now sitting up completely, and his breathing became more labored. Stamper tried to stay stone-faced, but he wanted nothing more than to run over and help the man up.

"Love me," Stamper muttered, shaking his head. "Yeah, you really showed you cared when you left me dangling off the edge of a pit to hell,"

"Stamper, I will admit that was me being a coward. I noticed the ground was so weak that if I ran to help, it would've just crumbled. The second I ran out of that room though, I realized I would've rather died trying to help you then let you die with the image of me abandoning you," Mick shook his head, but his eyes never left Stamper's.

"Okay, sure. And that still doesn't excuse the bitch you had on the couch with you," Stamper pointed out, the images of that night flashing into his head and leaving him with whiplash.

"That was a friend of a friend. She was drunk, and I tried to calm her down, then next thing I know her fucking shirt was off-"

"Yeah sure, calm her down," Stamper rolled his eyes.

"Fine then, don't believe me. I just want you to know that next week of silence from you was excruciating," Mick's voice cracked slightly, tears continued to glide down his face, mixing with the sweat and grime that was already there. He had that sad puppy dog look in his eyes as if the puppy was watching all his litter mates getting eaten by his mother.

"I really want to forgive you, Mick. But it's hard,"

"I understand that. I deserve this for not trying to explain anything to you sooner. I just thought it'd sound like stupid and petty but in retrospect-"

"Okay, just shut up. Shut up! I don't owe you a thing, and these lame-ass excuses aren't helping your case. I gave you what I wanted to give you, and that's it. End of story! Bye now," Stamper waved and spun back around, continuing his way up the new hill that mother nature decided to put there two minutes ago.

As he walked away this time, though, it was with far less confidence. A seed of doubt was planted in his stomach, and it grew into a beanstalk quickly. Mick was telling the truth, right? That's what Stamper wanted to believe.

Mick was a man of honor. Stamper had never once seen him lie before... surely.

Then there it was. The voice once again sneaking up and chipping away at Stamper's thoughts. It ushered him to move away, demanding he kept walking. But the more the voice demanded, the more Stamper disobeyed.

His steps gradually slowed, lacking in confidence, and the voice only grew angrier. He crept closer to a complete stop, and suddenly, his mind was made up. Even with his voice shrieking like a damned banshee, Stamper knew he wouldn't survive this alone. Who better to be next to beside-

A shout. A shout and a crumble. The shout came from Stamper himself. He was suddenly barely holding to a ledge, once again hanging on for dear life.

Oh god... not this again.

The renovating earth decided to do a few minutes ago had apparently left a cliff where a road once was. When he looked down, the ground looking about twenty feet away from him, he could see busted cars and jutted asphalt, something he'd prefer not to land right on top of. The fall wouldn't kill him, but the injuries he'd get from it probably would.

He felt the edge he was holding to began to crumble, though, and he clenched his eyes shut in anticipation of a broken bone or two from this fall.

But before anything could happen to him, he felt something warm encase his hand. A weight heaved him from his concerning position and pulled him into security. That security wasn't only solid ground though, it was a comfortable pair of arms trapping him within them. Stamper didn't move... remaining a willing captive of his new cage.

He couldn't hold it back anymore. Stamper began to sob. It was gross and embarrassing, but in a world like this one who had a shit to give? He buried his face into Mick's filthy hoodie and wrapped his beaten arms, around the larger frame holding him.

"Stamper. You're absolutely right. You don't owe me a thing, but I owe you the world and more. Or well, maybe everything but the world. She's going through a bit of a crisis at the moment," Mick spoke with that sense of confidence that Stamper had almost forgotten. He sounded as if he knew what he was saying, and for once in a long ass time, he wasn't begging.

"You know, I've never been one to hold grudges," Stamper shook his head, only burying his face deeper into Mick's neck. After a second or two of readjusting to that smell he loved, that could still be made out through the stench of dead things and smoke, he pulled his head away.

His eyes met with the trail of blood falling from Mick's nose, making Stamper's heart twist slightly from the knowledge that he caused that. He took the back of his hand, with its filthy gauze, and wiped away the red. It only left a smudge, doing nothing towards trying to clean it off, but Mick still smirked.

"But you sir, have a lot of apologizing to do," Stamper took his pointer finger and pushed on Mick's chest, causing their embrace to break and freeing Stamper of his comforting cage. There was a sense of emptiness when they departed, but it wasn't like that would be the last time they did that.

"So, we're good? Or, good enough?" Mick dared to ask.

"Oh, I'm pissed. Still deciding whether that friend of a friend thing was accurate or not. But I'm not mad enough to punch you ten times over again," Stamper shrugged, and he watched the look in Mick's eyes falter when he mentioned the friend thing. That was regret, Stamper knew it when he saw it. That had been in his own eyes many times in his life. It made him crack the slightest hint of a smile, and Mick seemed glad to see that.

"Well, you know it isn't easy to get rid of me," Mick finally spoke.

"Yeah, unfortunately," Stamper joked, and the two giggled, but that ended up leading Stamper into a coughing fit. He bent over as he coughed his lungs out, and Mick leaned over with him to hold him steady.

"Jesus, I forgot you got shriveled up little lungs. I wouldn't be surprised if you're suffocating with all this extra shit in the air," Mick commented while Stamper recomposed himself.

"Yeah, well don't worry about me, I got everything covered," Stamper waved, and when he took a step, he found that his foot had no ground under it. He nearly walked straight off the edge of the cliff he had almost fallen victim to a few seconds ago, before Mick jumped over and grabbed his arm. He pulled Stamper back and held his forearms tight.

"How the hell did you make it this long without dying?" Mick sounded genuinely astonished with an amused tone, and Stamper laughed with him.

"No clue," Stamper mused.

Mick dusted him off a bit, and the two soon continued their way back to Stamper's hideout, except around the death pit this time. Where were they gonna go from there? Zero clue, but Stamper was sure about one thing.

He wasn't going to let that voice in his head win. It could holler and beat on his skull till the day Stamper died, which honestly probably won't be too far from now, but he understood that listening to it has only led him down horrible paths in his life. Ones that he looked back on and wanted to punch himself for.

The only voice he really trusted was Mick's, and he knew that if he wanted to stick out this whole apocalypse thing with anyone, it was him. Everyone else could just kiss off.

**Author's Note:**

> You know, everything I write is awfully tragic. I might just right some self indulgent fluff soon, we'll see.
> 
> Also I'm going to be honest. I've been writing a bunch of shit and leaving it all half done and getting frustrated, but for the first time in a while I sat down and wrote this and edited this in one singular sitting. This was fun. I'm happy.
> 
> ALSO, my friend brought this up after they read this, BUT if you want to put this in the same universe as the "Deathlessness" one shot I wrote a while ago then uh... go for it. I didn't really think about having them share a universe, but if you wanna do that, then go ahead I guess. I just like writing apocalypse aus.
> 
> Ok, bye dickheads and thank you for reading :)


End file.
